Black Eye
by Cima1305
Summary: 007/Q pairing. What if the meeting at the museum wasn't the first time Bond and Q met? They had a history together, where Bond rescued Q from a terrible place. Contains dark themes, full warnings inside.
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings: This story contains dark themes including violence, imprisonment, rape, sexual abuse, torture, and spoilers for Skyfall, of course.**

Disclaimer: I don't own the Bond franchise and this story is for recreational purposes only.

Chapter 1:

James Bond looks older and more weary than Q last remembered. There was a stoop in his shoulders that wasn't there before as he sat on the bench and stared blankly at _The Fighting __Temeraire_.

But the sight of him, _oh James,_ sent a quiver up Q's spine as he sauntered his way past the museum visitors and fought for a cool, professional demeanor as he sat down next to the MI6 agent. Bond didn't turn to look at him, or even make a sound, but Q felt him freeze as the bench shifted under the new weight. He said nothing. He stared straight ahead.

"It always makes me feel a little melancholy," Q said conversationally, as if his heart wasn't pounding in his chest like a drum. "Grand old war ship, being ignominiously hauled away for scrap. The inevitability of time, don't you think?"

The inevitability of time had slackened the skin under Bond's eyes and put grooves along the sides of his mouth. But the eyes themselves were still the same intense blue, just as Q remembered.

He still said nothing. Slowly, achingly, Q reached across the seat and touched Bond's hand. "What do you see?" he whispered.

Bond didn't answer. He wasn't staring now, but glaring at the painting. His body was tense. "Why are you here?" he asked tightly.

"I'm your new Quartermaster," Q replied.

He glanced sideways when he heard Bond scoff. "You must be joking," said Bond.

"Why, because I'm not wearing a lab coat?"

"Because you've still got spots."

"My complexion is hardly relevant."

"Your competence is."

The tone of the conversation stung. Q pulled his hand back and returned it to his jacket pocket. The touch of Bond's skin still lingered. He stared at the cold colors of the painting as hard as Bond was staring.

"Age is no guarantee of efficiency," he said softly.

"And youth is no guarantee of innovation."

"I'll hazard I can do more damage on my laptop sitting in my pajamas before my first cup of Earl Grey than you can do in a year in the field." _As you well know, James. As you well know._

"Oh, so why do you need me?"

The question stopped Q short and he had to take a breath before answering. _You know why I need you. I've needed you before I even met you._ "Every now and then, a trigger has to be pulled."

Bond finally turned to look at him. His expression and his smile were both unreadable. "Or not pulled. It's hard to know which in your pajamas." He held out a hand to shake. "Q."

"007," Q breathed. The handshake was professional and brief. Q wanted to hold Bond's hand to his face, to feel that familiar callused palm cup his cheek and marvel, as he used to, that even so small a gesture could warm him from head to toe.

Instead, he handed over the papers and the slim black case, explaining its contents with proficient brevity.

"Gun and a radio. Not exactly Christmas, is it?"

"Were you expecting an exploding pen? We don't really go in for that anymore."

That got him a slight but genuine smile. The honest crinkles in the corners of Bond's eyes were like cracks in a façade, hinting at something warmer beneath. Q felt his cheeks growing red and he looked down. Bond's smiles, his _real _smiles and not the champagne-kissed movie poster smiles, were like brandy. They heated the blood and left you feeling warm and loved.

"Why did you never return my calls?" Q ventured.

No response.

When he looked back up, the façade was whole again. Those blue eyes were staring at the painting again, as inscrutable as ever.

With nothing left to say, Q sighed and stood. "Good luck out there in the field. And please return the equipment in one piece."

Q didn't know what he was expecting their first meeting in years to be like, but he was bitterly disappointed as he walked away, past the uncaring portraits and the unfeeling statues and out into windy London.

X

"How could you do it?" Bond demanded, as soon as he entered M's office. The glass door swung shut with a _thunk _and rustled the papers on her desk. He was angry. An angry James Bond was like a storm, and M could almost smell lightning as he strode up to her and planted his hands on the edge of her desk. But she was unperturbed as she looked up from her computer.

"There are many things," she said calmly, "that I have done and not done. You'll have to be more specific."

"Why him?" Bond growled. "Why now?" He pushed off the desk and took three strides to the left, turned, and then three strides back, like a caged lion.

M looked down. She swallowed imperceptibly and returned her fingers to the keyboard. "Ah," she said. "You've met with the new Quartermaster."

"Why him?"

"He's qualified," she said crisply. "The brightest we have. You know that. His brains, his expertise, his skill is why we had you extract him in the first place."

"He has no experience."

"On the contrary, he's had eight years of experience leading up to this."

Bond paused in his pacing, an expensive shoe squeaking on her tiles. "Eight years," he repeated.

She exhaled softly through her nose and stood. "Yes, eight years," she said. Her words were heavy with meaning and he didn't meet her gaze. "It's been eight years, Bond, since you left him. Rather cruelly, I remember."

His nostrils flared at that and he whipped around like a wolf that had been bitten by a trap. "I left him so he could have a normal life," he nearly snarled at her. "And you… _you _recruited him for an organization he had no business being in at his age."

She stepped out from behind her desk, a bewildered expression starting to form on her face. "You were younger when youfirst started," she said. "And _he _was the one who sought us out. This is the life he chose for himself."

Her shoes clicked as she came to stand in front of him, undaunted by his height. "What's this really about, Bond? You've bedded and left a dozen of them and never looked back, appalling as that may be. So what is this? Is there something you're not telling me?"

"He was supposed to be kept away from all this," said Bond. "He was supposed to be _happy_ with that poster boy operative…"

"Agent Pierce," M supplied. She paused. "He died."

Bond blinked. "I see." He looked away.

"007," M said. "Is this… whatever this is… going to be a problem?"

There was a tense silence between them. "Bond," M said sharply, and he met her gaze again. "Will you have a problem working with him?"

"No ma'am," he said finally. "Excuse me for the intrusion." He turned to leave her office.

"Bond," she said again, pinning him at the threshold with her voice. She didn't continue until he had turned reluctantly around and she made sure he was listening. "I don't know what happened between the two of you in that hellhole you pulled him out of. I don't want to know. But I think you and I had better have a talk about it later. I've read the mission files, but I want to hear the whole story from you. If there's anything that could endanger this mission because either you or he are emotionally compromised… I want you to tell me. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am."

X

The chill in the air and the chill in his heart had Q feeling like it was the dead of winter, though it was barely a week into October. It was times like these that he craved chips, piping hot and tangy with a good coating of vinegar and salt. He stopped by the local fish and chip shop on the way back to his flat that night and bought a paper bag stuffed with them.

He was dragging his feet on his way home, and the only thing on his mind was whether he wanted tea or cold pop to go with his chips, when an arm reach out of the darkness and pulled him into a shadowy alleyway.

He was too surprised to scream, but not too surprised to defend himself. The hot paper bag fell from his hand as he counter-twisted out of the man's grip and reached for the hidden sidearm strapped to the small of his back. To his shock, the man countered his counter and Q found himself with both wrists caught and his body flush up against the stranger's torso.

"Didn't I teach you that move?" said the man, with amusement in his voice.

"James!" gasped Q. Feeling the strength of Bond's chest beneath his jacket and smelling his cologne and the warmth of his skin was too much for Q's self-control. As soon as Bond released his wrists he grabbed the taller man's lapels and kissed him.

He couldn't stop smiling against Bond's lips. After eight years, James Bond's kisses were still melting and sweet. The scratch of stubble against his own smooth chin was exhilarating and made him weak at the knees. Q could feel his sadness melting away like ice, the last eight years sloughing away like crusted snow until he felt like he was a 19-year-old boy again in the arms of the man he adored.

Bond was breathing hard when they broke apart and Q buried his cold face into the expensive shirt, rubbing his cheek against the silk-covered muscles of Bond's chest.

"I tried so hard to contact you over the years," Q whispered. "Why didn't you ever answer?"

Bond said nothing, but gently nudged Q's spectacles back in place. They had been knocked askew during the kiss.

"I knew you were there that day," said Q, his ear filled with Bond's heartbeat. "At the cemetery, when I was visiting my parents. I couldn't see you, but I could feel you. You were always there, weren't you, just out of sight? Every October, when I go to visit them."

Bond shook his head. "No," he said into the darkness. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Slowly, Q drew back. He searched Bond's face for the signs of a lie and was met with a stony expression.

"I never looked back once I left," said Bond. "I'm not sorry for it, because you knew the kind of man I was and you shouldn't have expected anything else."

The sleepy, happy look had gone from Q's face. He pulled himself out of Bond's arms, even though it felt like going back into the winter cold. "Is that what you came to tell me?" he said softly.

"I came to tell you that it's not too late to turn back. I came to tell… to _ask _you to drop this mission."

"I'm fully qualified and you know it," Q said shortly. His voice was cold now. "I'm not that scared, broken little kid anymore, Bond. If you're going to work with me, you'll have to accept that."

To his surprise, Bond gave him a sad smile and touched his cheek. "You were never broken," said Bond.

Q couldn't help but sigh and lean into the warm, callused palm. "I still love you, James," said Q. But Bond was pulling away now and already turning to go.

"Then your love and trust are misplaced, as always," he said. "I don't love you."

But Bond stopped and turned halfway back before he melted completely into the shadows. "You shouldn't have gotten mixed up in this mission. It's too dangerous. This isn't some common crook we're dealing with, but someone who works from the shadows, enjoys playing sick, dangerous games, and has no compunction about killing innocent people. You think you're invulnerable but you're not. That makes you even more vulnerable."

"I'm not scared," Q called out. His voice echoed back to him, puny-sounding against the cold concrete.

"You shouldn't gotten mixed up in MI6," said Bond. He paused, looking down at the laces of his shoe. "And… you shouldn't have gotten mixed up with me."

He left Q in the alleyway with a warning and the lingering scent of cologne. Q sniffed and kicked at the discarded packet of chips, which was now soggy and cold.

"Thanks for the chips, 007," he muttered to himself.

X

The beady eyes of M's porcelain bulldog stared accusingly at Bond. It matched M's piercing gaze from across the desk.

Between them lay the folder that contained the mission files for Operation: Black Eye. It had been closed eight years ago, and the cream paper folder looked too pristine to contain something as sordid as what Bond witnessed during that mission. The new Q was also in that file, mentioned extensively and dispassionately in black and white, often in conjunction with Bond's own name.

If not for the bottle of imported bourbon on the desk, the whole situation would have seemed like an interrogation. It was late and most of the staff had gone home. Most of the lights had been turned off in their subterranean headquarters. M's face was sharp in silhouette as she regarded him with silent impatience.

Bond took a drink first and swilled it around in his mouth, savored the heat of it on his gums and tongue before swallowing.

"Worst therapy session I've ever been to, but at least the drinks are free," Bond quipped.

"007, if you think I'm here for my own pleasure…"

Bond set the glass down with a thump. His face was tense as he whispered the beginning of the story, "His name was John Reilly."

X

My first Skyfall fanfic! Please review and let me know how it is, and if the premise is good.


	2. Chapter 2

**Warnings: This story contains dark themes including violence, imprisonment, rape, sexual abuse, torture, and spoilers for Skyfall, of course.**

Disclaimer: I don't own the Bond franchise and this story is for recreational purposes only.

Chapter 2:

"His name was John Reilly," said Bond. "And I met him in a labor camp."

X

John woke up to the shrill scream of the morning whistle and the dull ache of sleeping on a lumpy, thin mattress. He woke up, as he always did, to the smell of sweat and crusted filth, dampness and the mold that came with it, old blood, and sickness. The cold lingered on him like a blanket of ice and he coughed miserably as he got to his feet.

The first thing he reached for was his spectacles, a heavy, hideous pair, but he couldn't see without them. If he couldn't see, he couldn't work. If he couldn't see, he couldn't defend himself, couldn't make a hasty escape or hide himself if the bigger, older men wanted to harass him today.

But the world was ugly to look at anyway. His cell was all cracked concrete and stains and dirt and metal bars, a miserable box of a room that he shared with an old ex-mercenary who was crippled in one leg.

A passing guard banged on the door with his stick. "On your feet, Reilly," he shouted hoarsely in Russian, and spat a gob of infected phlegm on the floor. "You're late."

"I'm coming," said John. "_Xorošó_, I'm coming."

John dressed with stiff fingers and walked out. Behind him, the guard strode into the cell and shouted at Huber, John's roommate.

"Get up, old man, or I'll break your other leg!"

Huber merely snored and rolled over.

All around him, the others inhabitants of the Complex were waking up, grumbling and cursing their way into another bleak morning. Cell doors banged open and feet shuffled slavishly across concrete and linoleum.

The place used to be a Severnaya prison complex during the Cold War. Now, under the control of General Ourumov, it had been transformed into an illegal weapons research facility and arms factory. The "staff" was made up of people like Huber, old enemies captured for slave labor, mercenaries, prisoners of war, and willing criminals who were desperate to get away from their own governments and sought refuge in the General's camp.

The cells now served as barracks, but it was still a prison in spirit, occupied by prisoners and run by armed guards. Like prison, every draft carried the stink of despair and sickness.

Everywhere John looked were bowed backs and ragged clothing, thin shoulders and thuggish faces. Hard labor and harder beatings had carved lines of resentment into each face there and John was sure he looked the same.

He was jostled on his way out. He was used to that. Someone grabbed his rear and made a rude comment. Others whistled and made suggestive gestures. He was used to that too. It was the price he paid for being anemic, bespectacled, and too slim in the waist. He dealt with it the only way he could, by keeping his head down and barely speaking. The less he was noticed, the better.

He wasn't a laborer or a fighter, and didn't have the build of one. He was strictly Research.

He left the barracks in a van and was driven across the Siberian landscape to a nearby office where he did his work. The van dropped him off, and then drove further to deposit the others for manual labor.

After a cuff on the back of the head for being late, he was seated in front of four outdated monitors and a keyboard. His work that day was a continuation of a seven year long project, one that he started when he was only a twelve-year-old genius that General Ourumov had kidnapped from London.

He wasn't allowed to know the nature of the project. He himself only worked on a piece of the big picture, a portion of what they called "Stage One." He was never allowed to speak to or even see the other researchers.

"What's taking so long?" snapped Commander Bury, the General's second in command. She was standing behind John as he worked, watching his every move. Every time she grew impatient, her hand strayed to the Beretta at her side.

"It's still aggregating information," he replied. "These operating systems are very outdated. They're slow.'

She cuffed him again. "At this rate," she spat, "you'll never get out of here. You'll never see your mama and papa again." Bury strode out in a huff and John breathed a bit easier. The rest of the day passed uneventfully, mostly waiting for the computer to run its simulations and scribbling calculations on notebook paper.

But it wasn't until after his shift, as he was riding back to the barracks in a van full of mostly old men, that trouble caught up with him.

He was breathing on his hands and wishing for a hot bath, which he wouldn't get because the shower water was lukewarm at the best of times, and something from the canteen, which he would get but it would be of the worst quality, when the van stopped moving. The driver's protest was cut short when he saw the uniforms of the men who had flagged them down. A man with a cruel face boarded the van and inspected the hunched, gray-faced passengers.

"No women here, _Leytenant,"_ muttered the driver. "Only men."

"Oh, really?" came the icy yet amused response. "You won't mind if I take a look."

Polished boot heels clicked as the Lieutenant slowly made his way down the length of the carriage. A glance at his flaring nostrils and hungry, searching eyes told John exactly what the Lieutenant wanted.

John hunched himself into a smaller ball. He was at the very back of the van and each boot step brought the evil-smelling man closer to him. He wished dearly that he had a handful of dirt, or soot, or even snow to smear over his face, to make himself less appealing.

To his dismay, the Lieutenant stopped in front of him and bent down to take a closer look. A gloved hand gripped John's chin and turned his slim, boyish face this way and that, so that he could be inspected like cheap goods.

"Hello, _Zaika,_" the man said softly, with an undercurrent of malice in his voice. "Open your mouth."

John breathed hard through his nose and had to fight back a whimper. The pressure on his jaw increased painfully until he obeyed, gingerly, to let the man inspect his teeth and tongue.

"Good," said the Lieutenant. "You'll do. Come with me."

He was led off the van and to a black Moskvitch parked nearby, heart pounding the whole way. It wouldn't be the first time he was raped, but that didn't stop the bile of loathing from rising up in his throat. He hated it, whenever it happened, whoever it happened with.

There were three other men in the car and a driver. The driver stayed outside and leaned on the hood, smoking a cigarette and looking out into the horizon, acting as casual as if he were on a picnic.

"What's your name?" said the Lieutenant, when John was situated in the backseat with him. The two other men sat in the front and watched him through the rearview mirror. They were smiling.

"J-John Reilly," he replied. His hands shook. "I work for General Ourumov. I'm a programmer. I'm very important." He blurted it out in a jumble of accented Russian, hoping that it would protect him somehow.

"Oooh," mocked the Lieutenant. "A programmer. You're a smart boy." He undid a few coat buttons and nonchalantly pulled his pistol from his belt. He held it gently in his gloved hand and pulled the hammer back with a click. With his other hand, he took John's limp hand and brought it to his groin, forcing John's icy fingers into a stroking motion. "So… are you going to be smart? Or… would you rather find out just how expendable one programmer is to General Ourumov?"

"Don't hurt me," John whispered. He felt the Lieutenant's erection shift under his hand and grimaced in disgust. "I'll do whatever you want."

"Good," said the Lieutenant. He moved John's fingers to undo his fly. "You have very innocent eyes. I like that. I want to see you look up at me while you suck my cock."

By the time they were done, he had serviced all four men, including the driver. They drove him back to the Complex and tossed him out into the snow, where he retched and vomited, sprawled out on bruised hands and knees. His humiliation was complete when the Lieutenant tossed a handful of banknotes to him and laughed in his tear-stained, bile-stained face. They drove away and left him to stagger back, clutching his empty, aching belly.

He didn't pick up the banknotes. What would money buy him? The only way he could pay his way out of this hell was to finish his job, however long it took.

The guard stopped him at the entrance. "You're late," he growled. "I should report you." He took in John's haggard look and smiled knowingly. He grabbed John's elbow and drew him close, sniffing his hair and neck, where the officers' scent still lingered.

"I see," he leered. "You've been having fun. I suppose I'll skip the cavity search and let you go rest that sore ass. Get going."

The canteen was already closed, not that he had any appetite anyway. Most of the lights were out by the time John limped back to his cell. Huber had the radio on and was drinking from a flask filled with something pungent.

"Shhh, shh," he soothed, as John fell into his bed, muffling his sobs into the threadbare pillow. "Not so much noise."

The old man turned up the dial and classical music flooded the cell, drowning out John's little whimpers and moans. After a while, Huber passed him the flask and John took a mouthful of hard, stinking liquor. It burned him as it went down and he gagged on it, but it was a cleansing heat. It washed away the taste of those men.

It wasn't until much later, when Huber nodded off in a haze of liquor and static and the whole floor was quiet and dark, that John dragged himself to the toilet-and-sink fixture to rinse out his mouth. He washed his face of crusted tears and crawled into bed, curling himself up into a protective ball.

He thought of home. He thought of warm sunlight and trips to Soho, Mum's pudding and Dad's library with the good smell of leather-bound books. He tried not to think of his fingers scrabbling helplessly against the floor of the car, his bruised knees splayed wide, his face rubbing against a uniformed trouser leg.

X

"Yes, I already know all this, 007," M said dispassionately. She flipped through the first few pages of the file and shot him an impatient look. "John Reilly's blood tests, physical examination, and psychological analysis from when we first pulled him out of Russia all pointed to a history of sexual violence. What I want to know is how _you _came into the picture."

Bond finished his second bourbon and set the empty glass on the table. He reached for the decanter to pour a third, but drew back when M raised her eyebrow in disapproval.

"Right," he sighed. "How I came in."

M flipped a few more pages and pointed at a line in the paper with a sharp nail. "You were originally inserted into Operation: Black Eye as an undercover agent, posing as Kirill Zukovsky. The assignment was supposed to be the assassination of-"

"Sexual violence," Bond interrupted, "is _exactly _how I came in."

X

There were new recruits coming in today. The guards led them through the barracks in a grim parade while everyone else gathered to watch. Everyone but John, who preferred to stay in his cell with his books.

He had two physics textbooks spread out in front of him and a university-level programming textbook in his lap as he sat cross-legged on the floor. The text was outdated, but he could've written several new editions from the information that he extrapolated and invented in his mind.

They let him have books like these, and he enjoyed them as his only luxury in this place. These books, and whatever other reading material he could garner, had been his only education since twelve years of age.

There were the usual catcalls and shouted threats as the new arrivals were led to their cells. As usual, they were probably from different parts of the world, whether willing or unwilling. American, Chinese, Eastern European, or even English like him. They would be slowly assimilated into the miserable and filthy masses of the Complex, either violently or peacefully. They would find gangs to join and enemies to fight, rivals to squabble with.

John didn't bother looking up as the procession passed his cell. He didn't care. People in his world fell into two categories: those that hurt him, and those that ignored him. He preferred advanced calculus to either of them.

But there was a hush in the crowd that had him looking up from the black-and-white page in curiosity. It was the last man in the procession.

He didn't look like the others, the man with short-cropped blond hair and blue eyes. He didn't have that slumped, defeated look of someone treading the last few steps to hell. The set of his shoulders spoke of confidence. The tilt of his chin was a challenge to anyone who thought of bullying him into submission.

He wasn't large or overly bulky, but every step he took spoke of a hidden, coiled strength, a graceful power that snakes have before they strike. His face wasn't a thug's face. He looked like someone of good breeding, someone who was intelligent.

Those blue eyes flickered in every direction, taking in the environment in a cool, searching sweep. For a moment, they rested on John and John found himself captivated by that man's gaze. It seemed to swallow him whole. He quickly blushed and looked away.

John didn't see the blue-eyed Stranger again until two days later. It was during the afternoon meal at the canteen.

The line was long, as usual. As usual, John tried to be unobtrusive as he waited for his turn. He was too small and weak to push his way through the crowd and grab his share, so the soup would most likely be cold by the time he got there.

His mind was on coding and soup and calculus and blue eyes when someone bumped into him from behind.

"Hey there, Johnny boy." It was Miller, an American who had been a member of the Complex for two years. He was the type of man that John had learned to avoid, men who were violent, bored, and sexually frustrated and liked to take it out on others. "Glad I ran into you."

Miller slipped a heavily-muscled arm around John's waist and pulled John into his body so that his hips ground against the younger man's rear.

"Let go of me," said John, more annoyed than scared. His research had not gone well that day and his nerves were on edge. He still saw lines of code when he closed his eyes and he had a headache.

"You should stop playing hard to get," Miller murmured into John's ear. "That act's getting real old. How 'bout I take you back to my bunk for an hour or so? I promise I'll be nice. There might even be a can of beans and a new sweater for you at the end, if you're a good boy."

"I said to _stop_," said John. He tried to wriggle out of Miller's grasp but inhaled sharply when a hand slid up his thigh to his crotch. "Don't touch me," he pleaded, and hated how plaintively his voice came out. He looked frantically around for an escape and his eyes fell on a pair of blue ones, all the way across the canteen. The Stranger was watching.

Miller laughed softly and bent to kiss John's ear. "What's the matter, you only put out for officers now? Whores can't be picky, Johnny."

That was when something in him snapped. Maybe it was the stress of too little sleep, too little food, and too much work that pushed him over the edge. Maybe it was reliving the trauma he had suffered at the hands the Lieutenant and his men. But John felt rage ignite in the pit of his stomach and instead of submitting like he usually would, he slammed his elbow into Miller's gut.

Miller exhaled explosively and doubled over, releasing John in the process. The American gasped disbelievingly for a while. But then his lip curled into an ugly smile.

"You just made a big mistake," he said. Before John could curse himself for being stupid enough to fight back, two of Miller's goons flanked him and grabbed his arms. One of them punched him in the stomach and had him doubling over in a silent scream.

"Strip him," ordered Miller.

His shirt was torn from neck to hem. The buttons on his trousers popped as they were ripped apart. They pushed him to the floor and whipped both trousers and undergarments off in one smooth move. They kicked him until he stood back up, red-faced and shivering.

The crowd had formed a ring around him now, hooting and catcalling. Food was forgotten. This was far more entertaining.

"This one thinks he's too good to be fucked!" Miller called out in Russian, a finger pointed at John. He grabbed a skinny bicep and turned John around so that everyone could gawk at his nakedness. The crowd answered with a raucous cheer.

John was speechless with shame. He covered his genitals with his hands and didn't bring them up to defend himself when Miller struck him hard in the face. He went reeling back into the circle of spectators. Someone slapped his rear. Someone else pulled at his hair and pinched a nipple, someone tried to jab a finger in between his buttocks. He was tossed around like a parcel until he stumbled back into the center. He tasted blood and his eyes were burning with unshed tears.

"Let me tell you something," Miller said viciously, grabbing him again. "You're about to learn this the hard way: no one's too good to be fucked in this place."

"So why don't you go first?" someone drawled.

Before Miller had even finished turning around, he had already dropped to the floor, unconscious. It was only seconds later, when John had time to process what happened, that he realized it was the blue-eyed Stranger who had come behind Miller and knocked him out in one blow.

He didn't punch like a thug. He didn't even punch like a guard. He punched like a trained assassin, aiming straight for the throat, no excess energy, dropping the American like a bag of rocks.

Miller's crew was stunned into silence, which lasted for about a second before they turned on the newcomer. Already riled up, they attacked him en masse.

But the Stranger moved like no man John had ever seen. He was as brutal as he was fast. They couldn't even come close to him. Fists, as lethal as any weapon, crashed into noses and sternums and kidneys. Feet crashed into groins and tender insteps. More than one man fell to the ground and didn't move again, didn't look like they'd ever move again. There was blood, and none of it was his.

It was over in about a minute. The remaining spectators had dispersed until the only two left standing were the Stranger and John, hands still cupped protectively over his genitals, shaking like a leaf, and wondering how he'd gone from a gang rape to a massacre.

The Stranger was panting lightly, as if he'd only been out for a brief jog. He moved towards John, who was rooted to the spot by fear and shock. In a bewildering act of kindness, the Stranger shrugged off his jacket and draped it around John's shivering shoulders.

"Are you alright?" he asked John in the Pomor dialect, as if he hadn't just beaten a handful of men to pieces. As if he didn't just cause far more destruction in a minute than Miller ever had in a year.

That's when the smell of blood hit John's nostrils and he felt his knees buckle. But the impact of the cold floor never came. Instead, he felt his skinny, malnourished body caught in strong arms and lifted into the air.

Everything spun around him as his head lolled against the Stranger's strong chest. He closed his eyes and let a few tears fall as he was carried out of the canteen. The arms around him were like iron bands, but they didn't hurt him or crush him. He felt strangely safe, safer than he had felt in years.

When he opened his eyes again, he was lying on a cot in the Stranger's cell and he was staring into those impossibly blue eyes. Everything else was a blur.

"Are you going to kill me?" John whispered.

"No," replied the Stranger.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Kirill Zukovsky. What's your name?"

"My name is John Reilly," said John, before his eyes slipped closed again.

X

"Let me hazard a guess," said M. She shifted the loose papers around in her hands, disrupting the flow of the story. "You seduced him. And in his vulnerable state, he didn't even try to resist you."

Bond smiled ruefully and shook his head. "No."

"No? Bond, I'm surprised."

"At that moment, as I looked down at him and watched him sleep, the only thing I could think of was how much he needed to be taken care of."

X

Notes: "John" comes from the actor's middle name and "Reilly" comes from Ann "Q'ute" Reilly. Please review and let me know what you think! I'd really appreciate it!


	3. Chapter 3

**Warnings: This story contains dark themes including violence, imprisonment, rape, sexual abuse, torture, smut, and spoilers for Skyfall, of course.**

Disclaimer: I don't own the Bond franchise and this story is for recreational purposes only.

Chapter 3:

The shaving cream was left untouched as Bond reached for his gun. He crept across his Macau hotel room and took up a defensive firing position at the door. Three more knocks came from whoever was standing on the other side.

Bond wasn't expecting anyone. Anyone unexpected was usually bad news.

He unclicked the safety.

"Bond, open the door," came the muffled, irritated voice of Q from the corridor. "It's me."

An unstoppable smile crept across Bond's face, the way Scotch usually warms its way down his throat, but it was quickly replaced by a sort of muted horror at the thought of Q so close to the lion's den, away from the safety of London headquarters. But he let none of that show on his face as he opened the door to reveal a disheveled and queasy-looking Q.

"Where's the loo?" Q demanded by way of greeting

He dropped his bag and headed for the direction that Bond pointed with his sidearm. The door slammed behind him. Bond heard the tap turn on and the toilet cover being raised, Q's knees hitting the tiles, and a familiar _hurk_ noise.

Bond couldn't help himself from chuckling softly, even as his mind whirled with ways to get Q out of the country.

"Still haven't gotten over flying?" he called. The toilet flushed in response.

Still smiling, Bond closed and latched the door. He unzipped the left side pocket of Q's bag and took out the tin of tea he knew Q always carried.

By the time Q emerged from the bathroom, face shiny with scrubbing, Bond had hot tea ready in a steaming pewter cup carved with a delicate bamboo motif.

"Thanks," Q murmured, and took the cup with slightly shaking hands.

"You hate airplanes," said Bond. "Takes quite a bit of… _persuasion_ for you to even set foot in one, if I recall correctly."

"Blunt force trauma to the subclavian artery, if _I _recall correctly," said Q. "Very clever, James. Nearly killed me."

Bond made a small _tsk _sound and smiled in spite of himself. Seven years in a Siberian gulag hadn't diminished the innocence in John Reilly's eyes, though it had given him a rather severe expression around the mouth and chin. The eight years they spent apart afterwards, in which John had gotten two PhD's and worked his way up MI6 to become head of the Q branch, hadn't changed him much either. The boy Bond had taken into his arms in Siberia had now become a man, but he was still the same in spirit.

And Q, painfully endearing with his floppy hair and skewed glasses, was a more welcoming sight than any femme fatale showing up at his door in a slinky dress silhouetted by Macau's nighttime glow.

_You have no idea how much I missed you_, Bond wanted to say but couldn't afford to say.

"Nearly killed is better than killed," he said instead.

"Well, that was a long time ago and I…" Q trailed off and started slightly, as if just realizing that Bond was nearly naked, and that his toned torso was still warm and damp from a recent shower. The towel around his waist also left little to the imagination. Q's color rose and he cleared his throat. "I, um… I used your toothbrush. Hope you don't mind."

"Not at all."

"I also have new information," Q said quickly. "Whoever's stolen the list has already decrypted it. They've posted the first five names on the web and they'll post five more next week, and the week after."

Beneath Bond's smooth exterior, an idea was forming in his mind. _I need to get him out of Macau before things get ugly. And things _will _get ugly, very soon. _

Q's voice died in his throat when Bond gently touched the collar of his shirt, smoothing it between thumb and forefinger, letting Q feel the heat of his hand against a sensitive neck. "M's already briefed me on the list," Bond said softly. "So why are you really here?"

Q gulped and took a step back from Bond's devouring gaze. He reached for his bag, fumbled, and took out two sleek black cases from the Q branch.

"This," said Q, thrusting the first case between like a shield. He opened it to reveal two flesh-colored earbuds the size of peas. "Standard issue earpieces for when we reconnoiter the casino."

Bond raised an eyebrow. "_We_?"

"Well of course I'm going with you," Q said defensively.

"Of course," Bond relented. He nodded at the other case. "And what else have you got for me?"

The second case revealed a pair of handcuffs and key. "If you ever need to detain someone, or swap them for someone who is about to detain you," explained Q. He dangled them in front of Bond. "This has all the appearance of an ordinary pair of hinged handcuffs. But the ratchets are titanium alloy, virtually unbreakable, and the key is a dummy. There are two ways to unlock them. One is with your thumbprint, easily accessible if you're hands are behind your back. The other way is to program in a passcode that releases… erm… what are you doing?"

Q stared, bewildered, as Bond clicked the cuff around his right wrist. Bond clicked the other half around his own left wrist.

"Would you mind demonstrating?" Bond said softly. "I prefer my training to be hands-on."

"R-right," stammered Q. He leaned in awkwardly, connected to Bond by the wrist, and maneuvered the cuffs to reveal the tiny digital panel. "See h-here. You can use the digital readout to randomly generate a four-digit passcode. Once you've got it, you can use the code to release the lock. Like so."

He fumbled it, frowning when it didn't work. Maybe he was distracted by Bond's naked nearness, or the smell of his shower gel.

"Give me a second, I've got it…" muttered Q, determinedly _not_ noticing that Bond's face was very close to his own, lips just short of grazing his ear.

"Maybe you should reread the manual," Bond teased.

"I _wrote _the bloody manual," Q snapped. He twisted around as far as the cuffs would allow and snatched up the instructions manual from the box. He was halfway through them when Bond sidled up behind him, looping his trapped left arm around and across Q's chest.

Q gulped audibly when he felt the length of Bond's body flush against his back, the toweled hips pressing insistently against his backside.

"James," Q breathed, as Bond kissed up the side of his neck and his ear. He tried to raise his arm, either to swat Bond away or pull him closer, he couldn't tell, but found himself trapped by the blasted cuffs. He settled for grasping the hand he was attached to in a helpless sort of gesture. "What are you doing?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Bond whispered into Q's ear. "I'm about to lay you down on silk sheets…" He kissed Q's jawline, grazing soft skin with his teeth. "…and make love to until you see fireworks…." With his other hand, he stroked down Q's shivering flank, over the curve of his hip, down to his thigh. "…so that you'll never forget your first night in Macau."

Q turned his head halfway and Bond caught his lips in a knees-weakening kiss. With a little coaxing, Q parted his lips and let Bond slip his hot, slick tongue in and out, a gentle and intimate caress that left him gasping for more.

"Bond," Q protested weakly. "This this isn't what I came for." He gasped and arched backwards when Bond's hand crept up the inside of his thigh and cupped his groin, stroking his most private place.

"I know," said Bond, in a voice that was almost a growl. "But it's what you want." His voice softened. "It's what I want too."

"Oh, James," moaned Q. He was almost a puddle now, completely lax, caught between Bond's arm and an unyielding body. "It's… it's been such a long time for me."

"Then I'll be gentle," said Bond.

"No," said Q. His eyes were dark with desire and his lips were kiss-bruised and red. "I want you to ravish me."

Bond smiled. "As you wish."

X

John tried not to wince as the man known as Kirill Zukovsky dabbed lightly at the cuts on his face with a wet towel. He lay on his side on Kirill's cot and breathed gingerly through his battered nose as the man, with the blood of a gang of prison thugs still on his knuckles, tended to his wounds. His bare legs were curled up, knees to his chest, in an attempt to preserve his modesty, as he wore nothing except Kirill's jacket around his shoulders like a blanket.

"You're scared," said Kirill. "Don't be. I promise I won't hurt you." He was surprisingly gentle. Each dab of ointment, each wipe of the cloth, felt like a caress.

"Why did you help me?" said John.

No one helped each other out of kindness in a place like this. No one looked out for each other. Men ganged together, sure, but only out of mutual desire to harm or be harmed, to conquer and invade and overpower. No one had been tender to John for seven years… until now.

Kirill stared down at him a long time before answering. "Because I know you don't belong here."

"What do you mean?"

Kirill wiped at the crusted blood on the bridge of John's nose. He flinched and shifted on the rough pillow.

"Ow!"

"Hold still. I mean you're a pure Englishman, most likely from London. You weren't raised speaking this language, you learned it after you came to this place. By your accent, I'd say…" Kirill's face was a blur to John without his spectacles, but he could tell that those blue eyes were scrutinizing him. "…twelve or thirteen years of age. Am I wrong?"

"No," said John. The Stranger and his knowing blue gaze made him feel ill at ease. But the light, healing touches felt so good. His first month at the Complex had taught him to hate being touched, to loathe the rough hands that would grab his arm or hair or force themselves down his trousers. But now, for the first time in seven years, he was accepting the touch of human skin instead of shying away from it.

But he still found himself instinctively flinching backwards when Kirill tried to remove the jacket. Mortified, he shook his head. "_Niet_."

"Just checking for broken ribs," the Stranger explained. He handed John a cold compress. "Do it yourself, then."

His ribs weren't broken, only bruised. John hissed in pain as he pressed the compress to his black and blue ribs.

"So who are you?" said Kirill. "Why are you here?"

"I'm a programmer," replied John.

"For what?"

"I… I don't know." That was mostly true.

Kirill looked skeptical, but he didn't press John for more information. "I see." He stood to leave. "Rest, for now."

"Wait," John called out. Kirill paused at the threshold, a hand on the rusted iron bars of the cell.

John sat up awkwardly, trying not to aggravate his ribs. Shyly, he let one side of the jacket fall to reveal a pale shoulder, a glimpse of a slim back, a nipple that was stiff from the cold. It was a gesture he was sure the man would understand, almost an open invitation.

Though Kirill had yet to harm him, John had learned the hard way that there was no kindness without consequence, no service without payment. And this was the only payment he knew how to give.

He couldn't read the man's expression, but the desire in Kirill's blue eyes was unmistakable. The man approached the cot with the eager inhale that John was all too familiar with. John closed his eyes and waited to be pushed back down onto the cot, expected the weight of the other man on top of him.

He was very surprised. Kirill caught the trailing collar of the jacket and replaced it around John's shoulder.

"Keep the jacket," he said, his voice as warm as a kiss. "You need it more than I do."

He turned around and left John with an open jaw, and a very strange flutter of desire in the pit of his sunken stomach. He almost wished Kirill had stayed. He touched the skin of his shoulder and almost wished that he could feel the Stranger's lips there.

X

Q moaned as his back was slammed into the wooden lattice. He was half-naked, his shirt and cardigan bunched up around his waist, his shoulders bruising against the intricate designs in the wood. He had his legs wrapped around Bond's waist as they kissed each other breathless, sucking and biting at exposed skin.

His fair skin would be black and blue and strawberry red in the morning, but he didn't care. He felt wild. He gulped in the salty, spicy air of Macau and felt the years apart melting away. He was no longer the brilliant but ordinary university student who wore cardigans and heavy glasses and never went to parties. The heat of Bond's body melted an even deeper lump of ice, and he was no longer the scared, abused, too-skinny teenager that cried himself to sleep every night on a stinking mattress in a prison cell. He felt beautiful and sleek and adventurous. He felt sexy and dangerous with his wrist cuffed to Bond's with a pair of titanium handcuffs. He felt like someone James Bond would want, did want.

With a grunt, Bond lifted him bodily into the air and spun him about, depositing him on the lush, silky bed. He pressed Q's handcuffed wrist into the mattress with his own, and undressed him from the waist down one-handed. Q unknotted Bond's towel and tossed it aside and arched upwards with a gasp as their naked erections pressed against each other.

He gripped the back of Bond's head and brought him down for another kiss.

"Thumbprint!" he gasped, and sighed with relief when Bond _finally_ got the handcuffs to come off. His shirt and cardigan were quickly disposed of and he was wrapping his legs around Bond's waist and straining, straining to feel more, touch more. He ran his hands up and down Bond's toned body, loving every scar and imperfection.

And then Bond's slick fingers were at his opening and he was gasping into Bond's mouth, mewling against Bond's tongue as he was breached and stretched. When Bond entered him in a sweetly sharp thrust, he moaned brokenly and welcomed every burn, every pain, and every pleasure.

Bond, true to Q's demand, pounded mercilessly into him. They rocked the bed until Q was sure there'd be scratches on the floor. Bond sweated and grunted above him, arm braced against the headboard for support as he pistoned his hips in and out, until they both were brought to a shuddering orgasm that seemed to rip through Q's body like a wound.

He was boneless afterwards, lying spread-eagled on the sweaty sheets as Bond kissed him back to wakefulness.

"How are you feeling?" asked Bond, tender, now that their hunger had been sated. He kissed Q's quivering side, then his hip and his stomach.

"Ravished," breathed Q.

Bond smiled against his skin. "Good." He continued his gentle, comforting kisses down the length of a thigh, to the kneecap and the calf. The warm, humid air stirred the curtains and cooled them, bringing them down from a frenzied coupling to a more playful, satiated, lovemaking.

"Did you know," Q whispered, closing his eyes and luxuriating in the feel of silk against his cheek, "I used to be absolutely terrified of you?"

"Used to be?" teased Bond. He kissed his way back up Q's body, pausing over a nipple.

"I still am, sometimes," said Q, and ran his fingers through Bond's hair. Bond raised an eyebrow at him. "But not for myself. I'm terrified that you'll be the end of you. That you'll take too big of a risk one day and I'll never see you again. That you won't know your own limits. That you'll die."

Q turned to look at Bond, who was lying on his side, propped up on an elbow. "James…" He bit his lip briefly. "If you don't love me, I want you to look me in the eyes and tell me word for word. If I'm just some stupid kid chasing after you…. If that's all I ever was… Tell me, and I'll stay away. And after tonight, our relationship will be purely professional. After tonight, I'll never be terrified of you again."

Bond was silent for a moment. He seemed sadly pensive. But then he smiled with his usual easy charm and said, "But you're awfully _lively_ when you're terrified. I think I'd like to keep you that way."

"You didn't answer me," Q protested, and was cut off by a deep, lingering kiss.

"I've had enough talk," Bond whispered against his lips. Q felt the curve of his smile. "I'd rather go another round."

And Q didn't protest anymore, or even have the breath to, had he wanted to. The rest of the evening was spent in a noisy, pleasure-filled haze, all stickiness and wonderful soreness and warmth in all the right places.

But he woke later to the hard cold feeling of chain around his wrist, and the distinct dizziness that he recognized as being drugged. He even recognized the drug: a slight overdose of his own sedatives that he carried with him on plane trips.

"What…?"

He tried to sit up and realized that he was handcuffed to the bedpost. Bond was nowhere to be seen. Yanking on the cuffs only rewarded him with a scraped wrist.

There was a note on the nightstand.

_Q, I read the manual. Should take you an hour to get free. Go back to London._

Under the note was a first-class ticket back to London. Next to the note was another cup of tea.

It took Q two minutes to break out of the cuffs, and 90 seconds to whip out his laptop and track down where Bond had gone. But by then, Bond had already left the casino and was on a boat, headed to an uncharted island off the coast of Macau.

He felt like a massive fool. His face burned, with mortification and anger, as he realized that Bond had seduced and drugged him to keep him from joining the agent on the mission.

"Damn it," Q hissed, slamming a fist into the table. "James Bond, you complete _bastard_."

X

"Why are you here?" asked John Reilly.

"Excuse me?" replied Kirill Zukovsky.

It was a day later and they were in the canteen for the evening meal. John had worked up the courage to take his tray and approach the enigmatic man who had saved him from a gang rape. He noticed, not without some trepidation, that no one sat near Kirill after that first violent display. John had felt eyes on him all the way across the canteen as he went to sit next to the man. He also had the feeling that this could be used to his advantage. If the gangs were afraid of Kirill, then perhaps some of the nastier men would leave him alone if he hung around the newcomer.

John stared into his sludgy oatmeal. No meat. No protein. The good things, like herring and soup and toast, usually ended up on the trays of tougher, more dangerous men. John was usually left with the dregs. "You asked me the same question yesterday. Why are you here?"

Kirill stared coolly at him a moment. "What are you talking about-"

"I know you have a GPS receiver and RTLS tracking device embedded in your right wrist," said John, his voice so low that his lips barely moved. His hands were clasped tightly in his lap. His next words were spoken in flowing Oxford English, instead of his usual Russian stammer. "I know, because I helped design that particular model when I was eleven, at Middlesex University. I recognize my own work, even if it's below the flesh. I'm guessing that your organization stole and misappropriated that technology. You're no POW, or convict, or common thug. You're here because you _want _to be here, because you're being paid to be here, by the same people who are monitoring you."

John took a deep breath and held it. Kirill hadn't spoken a word so far, but also hadn't made any death threats yet. John forged ahead.

"You're an Englishman too, aren't you? You picked me out as a Londoner, so that means you're most likely the same. But I knew something was off before then. Your Russian is flawless, so much so that it reminds me of Cambridge."

He jumped slightly when a chuckle came from Kirill's throat. "Impressive. What else?"

John glanced around surreptitiously before answering. "I'm not looking to blow your cover. I don't know what illegal militant group you're working for, and I won't ask. I'm no more innocent than you are, of course. No one in this place is. I just…" He bit his lip. "I wanted to know your real name."

John turned to look at the other man. To his surprise, "Kirill" was wearing a rather amused smile.

"My name is Bond. James Bond."

"James Bond," John repeated. "Thank you for saving me yesterday."

X

Please review and let me know what you think so far!


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